


Robin Hood Ficlets: Much

by telynmurali (juniperwick)



Series: Robin Hood Ficlets [2]
Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Brooding, Fluff, M/M, Much is long-suffering, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Robin is a twat, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2020-09-25 08:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperwick/pseuds/telynmurali
Summary: A collection of some of the fic I wrote for the BBC's Robin Hood back when seasons one and two were airing, unedited except for spelling and formatting, and posted in a rough chronological order. I wrote so much centred around Much compared to anybody else, I wanted to collect most of his stories separately.Robin is the centre of Much's world. These ficlets sketch that relationship, through good, bad, and worse, up to the end of season two. (There's also appearances from Carter and Will, if you don't blink.)





	1. Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for the Secret Sheriff of Christmas 2007.

London. The last major stop on a series of them, that took Robin of Locksley, the young Earl of Huntingdon, (and his manservant) down to the south coast and thence to vistas unknown on a quest for the King. It was nothing new, at least not to London.

London was an open sewer, a gutter, a vortex of filth and noise and motion. It was full of fug and stink and yells, the smell of violently roasted meat on streetside stalls, and wafted beer and song from the open doors of taverns. It was like Nottingham, pace kicked up a notch and multiplied a thousand times. Robin was dazzled by it; Much found it just bearable if he was with his master.

And then –

It was a silly thing, really, the argument that drove Much out onto the streets that night. It was over nothing, over orders, over the home far behind, over Marian. Over nothing.

He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to Robin now, or what Robin had said to him, that made his face flush and all the words he’d bitten down on in the past years come bubbling up behind his lips, scalding and angry and ready to be said. So many words – so many, in fact, that they jumbled up on his lips and Much found himself stumbling over the syllables, stopping and starting, fire eventually petering out. Only to be rekindled again by the curve of Robin’s lips when he laughed. This time, with no words to be said, Much turned silently and slammed out of the room.

Still with the blood beating in his cheeks, Much found himself on the street, the on-and-off rain dribbling down his face in greasy trickles and dripping down inside his collar. He had come out without his cloak. London streets – they couldn’t be too different to Nottingham, surely? And he could find his way around Nottingham with his eyes closed. In Nottingham, if it rained and you were without a place to go, if you had some money in your pocket you had, essentially, two choices: an alehouse, or a house of girls.

Much didn’t trust London whores. He had heard horror stories. So he was left with only one eventuality.

Public houses were easy to find. You could be blindfolded, spun around and shoved in any direction, and you would walk smack bang into one and knock yourself out on an eave. He chose one that didn’t look as if he would be robbed within five minutes of walking into, and sat, experimentally, with a little flutter of the heart – mingled fear and excitement (alone in London!) – and spent his money. He could tell each coin’s story, all the many miles from Nottinghamshire – he watched with a tremor in his chest as each was taken away, to pay for drink after drink. Yet with each mug’s volume emptied, replaced on the bar, he found himself liking London more and more.

Yes. He liked its hustle and bustle, he liked the life and reek of it. He could lose himself here. He could be someone else. Maybe John Thatcher from Nottingham, as he pretended to the barman (half to himself, as well, at first for kicks and then for comfort). Maybe, in time, a real Londoner.

Until he caught sight of a familiar shape in the lamplight, briefly silhouetted in the hurly burly light from the street outside (torches, lamplight, reflected from windows) as the door swung open then shut. In that moment, the moment he saw Robin, standing with awkwardness written in each limb and looking about with nobleman’s eyes, he knew he could never run away and be anyone but Much of Locksley, the Earl’s man. And the Earl, no matter how many forbidden taverns he’d frequented as a boy, in disguise (his little manservant in tow to keep him safe), just didn’t belong here.

Much tossed his last coin to the barman and slipped off his stool, stumbling only a little and nodding to the ‘all right there, John?’. The room had become a lot more difficult to navigate since he had come in. It pitched and swam around him, and if he’d have been in a laughing mood, he’d have found it hilarious. As it was, Robin had caught sight of him halfway across the barroom, and pinned in his master’s gaze it was all he could do not to put his head down and bolt. The look that Robin was giving him spoke volumes about the words he was going to hear once they got outside.

“What do you think you were doing, going off like that?” The tone of voice was almost exactly as Much had anticipated, so much so that he barely needed to hear the words. He paused outside the tavern to let the door swing shut and the cold air breathe against his hot skin. Robin planted himself in front of him, so that no matter where Much looked he couldn’t avoid his master’s glare. “You smell like a brewery.”

Much dragged one hand over his face. Somewhere in the midst of all this, his shoulders had tensed. He tried to relax them, whilst avoiding meeting Robin’s eyes. “I’m old enough, I had money.” The world did another sudden spin around him as he tried to move away, and he pitched forward. The wet cobbles rushed up to meet him, and the tavern’s lights danced golden in the corners of his eyes.

The next thing he knew he was kneeling in the street, dampness seeping through the knees of his trousers, with Robin’s arm around his shoulders. There was a dull ache in his nose.

“Much. Much?” Robin’s cool fingers on his jaw, tilting his head up. The alcohol was suddenly dizzying, sickening in his head. All he wanted to do was go somewhere dark and rest his forehead against cool stone. But he let Robin bring his head up so that he faced into the light.

As he did, Robin grimaced, brows pulling together tightly over concerned eyes. He was kneeling in front of Much, his hands were soft on Much’s cheeks and his face barely inches away. Robin’s thumb brushed across his upper lip; then he brought his hand away for Much to see. It was wet with something dark.

“You must have bashed your nose a good one on the cobbles there,” Robin said, and all the accusation was gone from his voice. Instead his words flowered and died as little puffs of warm breath on Much’s face. “You’re bleeding.”

Without really knowing what he was doing – except that it seemed the right thing to do – Much brought his own hands up to Robin’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him.

Their lips met, Robin’s startled open, and kissed; hot, and blood-wet, and reverberated through by a noise made deep in Robin’s throat. Much tasted salt and copper – his own blood on his tongue, on his master’s lips moving against his. When Robin made another noise – more insistent – Much pulled away. His hands, curled at the base of Robin’s neck, twined in the fine hair there.

Robin gazed at him from under heavy lids. He was breathing hard through lips smeared wet red with blood. Much closed his mouth and set his jaw, readying himself for whatever it was Robin was going to say next. What he did say surprised him enough that he couldn’t be sure he’d heard it right for the first few moments.

“We can’t do this here.”

“Master?”

“Not here.” Robin shook his head looking for all the world like a man struggling from the depths of a dream. “Home. The inn. Anywhere, not here.” Much was halfway through an automatic nod when Robin caught his jaw and pulled him closer, pressing a quick, hot kiss half on his lips and half on his chin before springing to his feet.

Much looked up. Robin seemed to tower over him, one hand outstretched. His nose throbbed with each pulse of blood that beat through his skull; it was getting worse now. He closed his eyes against it and took Robin’s hand blindly, let his master lift him up. On his feet, he swayed, and Robin’s arm was suddenly solidly around his waist. He sagged into Robin’s side, let his aching head fall onto his shoulder.

Once he realised that there was barely any need for him to keep his eyes open, the rest of the journey back to their inn passed in a gentle blur of footsteps and voices and Robin’s arm around him and Robin’s cheek against the top of his head and Robin’s murmurs into his ear. The heat of Robin’s breath on his skin and his lips on his ear tingled down his spine. He only opened his eyes to climb the narrow stairs to their room, and they passed with surprising ease to give unto their rattling and creaky-hinged door and then to the room, lamp-lit by a serving maid for the Earl of Huntingdon (looked down on as a poor country lord or not) and his manservant.

Much remembered, dully, as he flopped down to sit on the edge of Robin’s bed, that they were back on the road again tomorrow.

The door closed, and there was the click and slide of a latch and bolt, before Robin turned and regarded Much with hooded eyes.

It struck Much again just how young his master was. A limber and agile youth, with all the strutting confidence of his late teens, and an easy smile that spoke of a way with the ladies. Young, too young to be the master of all Locksley, surely. Much wondered who would look after the village while they were gone. Who would look after it if they never returned.

Robin crossed the distance between them in three easy steps and stooped to smother Much’s thoughts with a kiss. Different, this time. This time it was Robin doing the kissing, Robin coaxing Much’s lips apart with his tongue and pushing relentlessly forward with his hands on Much’s shoulders and a knee between his legs so that Much really had little choice but to acquiesce and let himself be pressed backwards onto the bed. Robin’s weight was on top of him, chest to chest, legs tangled in legs, Robin’s mouth not letting him breathe – but God have mercy on his soul, this was good, too good.

Much found his senses somehow and brought his own hands up to Robin’s shoulders, intending to push him away – this wasn’t right, he wouldn’t let this happen, he didn’t know why he’d kissed him in the first place – but instead found himself fisting his hands on the old, soft material of Robin’s shirt and pulling him closer.

Robin made an urgent noise against Much’s mouth, hands travelling down Much’s chest, skimming ticklishly over his ribs. Much winced away, the corners of his lips curling up in an familiar smile. In a flash he was overwhelmed by memory – green grass, blue sky, Robin (younger but stronger) launching a spontaneous attack on Much with his hands, going straight for his ribs, wrestling him into submission and tickling him mercilessly as Much writhed and struggled laughed so hard that tears ran from his eyes. How many times had that happened?

Much’s hands found Robin’s shoulders, and shoved. Robin slipped backwards, legs skittering briefly then going from under him, and he hit the floor with a thud that must have been audible in every corner of the inn. He looked up at Much, eyes burning under childishly drawn-in brows, for once completely without words.

And Much found himself sitting up on the edge of the bed, fists clenching in the blankets, staring at his master where he sat, hands splayed, legs sticking straight out, on the floor. He had never seen Robin look so ridiculous. But for some reason the laughter that should have been there didn’t come. Instead, there was a sick weight, settling deep inside his gut.

Stiffly, Robin got to his feet. The silence stretched out like gum. After breaking Much’s gaze, Robin wouldn’t meet it again.

“Master, I...” Much’s words fell like dead weights in the air between them, and he faltered. Robin, half-turned, stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking at the floor, in dangerous silence. Much tried again. “I’m sorry!” He hated his own pleading tone, but Robin didn’t react, so he let his mouth run on. “I’m sorry for arguing earlier, and I’m sorry for going out without your permission, and I’m sorry I got drunk, and I’m sorry for letting you – for letting you do...” This. Each sorry lightened the weight in his chest, but still Robin didn’t react. Hadn’t sorry always made it better before? Why not now? Was he forgetting something? The ale still in his head gave a throb – the world sharpened, became briefly brighter, Robin turned toward him – he dropped his head and pressed the backs of his knuckles against his burning cheeks. Too hot. Robin’s gaze, on him now, too heavy.

Sin. The word came back to him with black-on-white vividity. Sin. To want Robin. To crave him. Sin. To let him do this. To lead him into. Sin. The gravest, most unnatural sin.

Robin knelt in front of him, all easy grace and clean lines. “Much. Look at me.” Much obeyed. (What else could he do?) Robin’s dark eyes shone in the light from the dying fire. The tension had gone from his face. He looked startlingly young. When he spoke again, his voice was as smooth as if a moment ago had never happened. “My father brought me up to show courage. You know that, because you knew him too.”

Much nodded, nonplussed, though he thought Robin was exaggerating a little. The elder Earl had been a formidable presence in the Hall, and a man not to be trifled with. To the servants, that was all.

Robin went on. “Courage is why we’re here tonight.”

Much’s stomach flipped over. The words, so provocative: we’re here tonight. All the implications and connotations: alone; together; all night.

“Courage is why we’re going to sail to the other side of the world – to reclaim our holy land.” Robin’s gaze faltered, and he looked away. His forehead creased. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “And suddenly, I find myself a little destitute of courage tonight.”

Much didn’t know if it was the drink or the look on his master’s face or that Robin had never admitted weakness before (and that was a little frightening all by itself), but before he knew what he was doing he had slipped from the bed to kneel in front of Robin, and reached out a hand and laid it flat against his cheek.

Robin looked up again, his eyes full of his soul. “I don’t want to die, Much. That’s why...”

The voice from moments ago echoed in Much’s skull: you are his guardian, you shall not... But he had an answer for it this time. He summoned up all his own meagre store of courage, and put it all into his smile for Robin. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

He was rewarded with a small smile. Robin’s lips moved; some sounds that were too quiet to be words came out. Much, hand still on Robin’s face, leaned forward to try to catch them.

“I didn’t hear –”

Robin cut his words off with a kiss that smothered the end of the sentence into a noise against his mouth. Much was too startled to respond – either by kissing back or pulling away – and it was over before he could regain himself. Robin didn’t move away. He breathed against Much’s mouth, forehead resting against forehead, eyes closed. Much had felt Robin’s eyelashes against his cheek.

Slowly, in the quiet of their breathing, Much’s hand slid around from Robin’s cheek to palm the back of Robin’s neck, where his hair curled over the collar of his shirt (it was getting long, would need a cut). His other hand fell on Robin’s shoulder, and squeezed. Robin was trembling, very gently, underneath his shirt. “I promise nothing will happen to you,” Much breathed, and felt Robin’s eyes open again, seeking his. He pulled back a little, still with Robin’s warmth under his hands, and met Robin’s gaze as steadily as he could. “I promise,” he said again, “if you die, I die.”

Robin’s hands came up – shaking – and caught Much’s face, fingers rasping over the few days’ worth of stubble (he had felt ashamed of it until now), and pulled him into another kiss. Not like the other kisses – not drunk, not tentative, not delicate, but feverish and desperate. So young, Much had just the time to think before he was kissing him back, fingers curling in Robin’s hair, in his shirt, pulling him to him and leaning into the kiss so hard that Robin had no choice but to put his arms around him. They pulled together, half kneeling, half crouching; chest to chest, legs tangling in legs, hands everywhere, touching and stroking and tugging.

Somewhere, they broke apart, dishevelled and out of breath and both painfully hard; and one of them – it might have been Robin, or then again might have been Much – scrambled upright on unsteady legs, tugging the other after, to stumble the few feet to the bed and fall down again, each entangled in the other, onto the fleabitten mattress. Somewhere, each piece of clothing came off – a little torn, a little clawed – and was tossed aside, each baring more sensitive Nottinghamshire skin to London blankets, and somewhere Robin’s hand crept down to Much’s breeches and Much didn’t complain (beyond a harsh breath, then a whimper, then a moan; and Robin had the idea that those were something else entirely) and the thought of sin never crossed his mind (at least not that night). And somewhere in the night, they fell asleep, sweat-slick and exhausted, in each others’ arms.

In the morning, they were on the road again.


	2. Going Down

Robin was the one standing in this situation, though for how much longer he wasn’t sure. Fits of trembling kept overtaking him, shuddering through all his limbs, and subsiding. His knees were made of water. He was thankful for the solid wall behind him.

Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he should go to bed. Bed. A nice thought.

Much’s voice brought him back to the present. “How do you want me to do it?” His blue eyes looked up at Robin from where he knelt, hands warm and steady on Robin’s thighs. Robin swallowed, and began to unlace his breeches.


	3. Knife Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the season one finale. Much broods.

Much was still damp from the river when dusk fell that evening. The frantic horse-theft and blaze across country to Nottingham had dried him off somewhat, as had the storming the castle and running and being rather too close to Vaysey for comfort – remembering the cold edge of the knife at his throat made him shudder. But he was still soggy where it counted. Behind his knees. Inner thighs. At his neck.

He was sat amongst the roots of a tall tree with his back against the trunk. The green canopy above him rustled and whispered secrets to him. The sky was still pale, but the light died quickly in the forest. Behind him, past a little rise, camp had been struck and voices rose and fell. They sounded so happy, Much thought.

And why not? All was well that ended well, wasn’t it? Marian – miraculously – alive and free of Sir Guy; Edward and other loyalists saved; Robin restored. The status quo reigned once again. There would be celebrations tonight.

And yet there was still the ragged worry in Much’s stomach. In quiet moments he could hear his heartbeat in his ears like a drum that shook the world. The world – their little world of friends and forest and hopes and dreams had teetered on the edge of a knife. It had almost fallen apart. There were times when-

Much drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. He shouldn’t think of it. It only made him feel as if… as if the whole world were about to collapse in on itself again. He set his jaw and groped for his buckler. There. Its reassuring weight when he pulled it against him. The ever-present sword hilt at his hip, so much a part of him now that without it he would feel itchy and on edge. But even that wasn’t right. It wasn’t normal to use one’s left hand. _Gauche. Sinister._

He shivered. Dark was falling quickly now. The tree-shadows melted together and hid the leaf-litter. The cold was getting into the wet patches, subtly seeping into him. Much curled his fingers against his body, his buckler against his shins. Robin had once commented that his buckler was like him – sturdy, reliable, always there. Much considered it, staring out into the forest. Perhaps it was truer than he had realised at the time. At the time, he had only been pleased to have got a few words out of his master after a week of silence. But it was true: he was like the buckler. Solid. Scarred. Boring. Simple.

No, not simple. Yes. No… Much covered his eyes with his hands. He sensed the exact proportions of his loneliness – the empty space around him, filled only with silent, unsympathetic trees. He looked up and sucked in a breath of cold air. The emptiness sat heavily on his shoulders. Behind him, Robin’s voice rose louder than the others – then laughter. Much bit his lip – hard – to keep from making any sound. The memory of sweaty, gentle nights in the Holy Land ambushed him without warning. His face flooded with heat and his nose prickled. He laid the backs of his hands against his cheeks and blinked up at the sky, sniffing.

The first stars peeked between the leaves. Those stars saw the bigger picture, Much thought. Those stars shone on Nottingham as well as Sherwood, and on Locksley and Bonchurch, and beyond. How could the world of fighting and blood and midnight raids on the King’s holy crusade follow them so easily from the east back home? It wasn’t fair. Much grit his teeth and squeezed his hands into fists. It just wasn’t fair!

Without thinking about it, Much stood and swung his buckler over his shoulder. The shadows seemed to unfurl to welcome him. He hesitated, fingers opening and closing at his sword-belt. Miles and miles stretched out before his feet, the whole world as seen only by God and the sun, moon and stars. A world full of emptiness. Much glanced back, over his shoulder, where the faint golden flicker of a fire could be seen through the trees. A whole world that would only be full of the space between him and Robin.

He turned back. (_Only ever a place-filler for him, not the one he really wants…_) His lip was beginning to hurt where he had bitten it, the cold knifing in. (_He wants her._) The soft music of voices was like a bubble of warmth he wasn’t part of. Wrapping his arms around himself, Much trembled. (_He wouldn’t even miss you if-_)

He shook his head. There was a soft spreading ache between his temples. It was going to get worse, he could tell. The wind gusted, and the tree-tops renewed their frantic whispering. The tree-shadows seemed to reach out to grasp him and pull him away. (Cheated of Bonchurch, of warmth and food, of peace, of Robin.)

Shrugging them off, one shoulder after the other, he readjusted his hat and sighed a foggy cold breath. Then he started back towards camp, and celebrations.


	4. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn breaks, after the season one finale. Robin wants to make amends. This is actually the first fic I ever wrote in this fandom.

Robin came awake easily to the beginnings of a cold dawn. The grey light was falling in dusty shafts from the mouth of the cave. Robin’s face was pressed to the cold stone. He lifted his head and rubbed his cheek, blinking hard. He must have been moving about in his sleep, he reasoned. He couldn’t remember the dream; only a vague feeling of discomfort and the fading residue of fear.

He sat up slowly, stretching the cramps out of his joints. Little pockets of cold unfolded in his clothes, making him shiver. The darkness was filled with the sounds of sleep: soft breathing, little snuffles, John’s regular, even snoring. The faint light limned edges – a hip, a shoulder, a quiver, a scabbard. Robin glanced around, eyes straining to see. Something was missing.

Where was Much’s warm body, curled next to him? He put out a hand and felt only stone. There wasn’t even a lingering trace of warmth. Robin shrugged off his blankets and stood. He took a final glance around - four other slumbering bodies – before creeping away.

There. Sitting like a stone statue in the mouth of the cave, the morning’s first weak rays washing over him. The birds’ early din was just getting into full swing, a clamour of twitters, warbles and shrieks. You could really hear it properly out here, Robin thought, sitting down beside Much, close enough that their thighs touched. “I didn’t think it was your turn to watch,” he said. He picked the crumbs of sleep out of his eyes with one hand.

Much shook his head. He had the hilt of his sword clasped between his hands, sheathed blade resting on the earth. “I swapped with Will.”

“Why? I thought you liked a lie-in.” Robin tried a smile. Much didn’t smile back. He hadn’t even looked at him.

“I felt-“ Much stopped, sighed, and shrugged. “ I felt like some time alone.”

“Oh.” Robin didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t used to Much being quiet, Much wanting time alone. It was unsettling. He turned his head and looked out into the forest.

There was a shroud of ground fog in the dewy hollows and ditches. It sheathed the bottom of the slope in gentle white, hiding from view the killing ground at the bottom. Robin clenched his jaw. The blood was gone, soaked long since into the earth, and the Sheriff had retrieved the bodies – but for Robin, a killing ground it remained. Bad memories. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and said, “We’ll need to be moving on today. Sheriff’s men patrol here regularly now.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Much said, utterly without enthusiasm. “It’s either find another damp, bat-infested, rat-infested cave or cope with being drenched outside in the forest, I suppose.”

“Got it in one,” Robin said, “you win a prize.”

“Eh?” Much looked at Robin for the first time since he’d sat down beside him. Robin grinned, and leaned in towards him. His lips grazed Much’s, but Much turned his head away.

Robin sat back. He felt Much’s muscles tense against him. The light fell on his cheek, ear, hatless hair. Robin lifted a hand to brush a strand away from Much’s forehead. He tucked it behind his ear, and let his fingers trail down his neck. Much flinched and Robin took his hand away. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

There was a tense pause, full of potential words. Much’s lips trembled, stilled. He looked down at the pommel of his sword, rubbing his thumb over the worn ironwork. Robin clenched his fists in his lap, willing himself to be patient. Much took a breath and let it out again. Then he looked up, blue eyes meeting Robin’s. “What you said.”

Robin bit the inside of his lip. “What do you mean?” He knew exactly what Much meant now. He wished he’d never asked what the matter was.

Much persisted. “What you said on the hill overlooking Locksley.” He averted his gaze from Robin’s face, staring instead out at the straight up-and-down tree trunks. “About me being a- a pox…” His voice broke and trailed off. His jaw clenched and he drew in a long breath, trying to recover himself. “And all that.”

Robin stared at his profile. Two conflicting forces warred within him. Part of himself that was already twisted up with swallowed guilt knotted further. _Say something to him!_ The other part wanted him to force Much retreat from what he wanted to say. It would be so easy. All it would take would be a little verbal push, and he might never talk of it again. He knew exactly how to bully Much into doing whatever he wanted.

He looked down, sick with himself. Then he gathered himself together and put a hand – hesitatingly – on Much’s knee. He felt Much turn his head to look at him. “Oh, Much,” Robin sighed. He covered his eyes with his other hand.

Much’s warm hand fell on top of his and squeezed. Robin didn’t look up. Much’s reassuring timbre vibrated through him, their thighs pressed close together. “It doesn’t matter.”

Robin shook his head. “It does matter.” He lifted his head at last. “It matters more than anything.” He did his best to hold Much’s gaze as he tried to collect together the right words. “I’m-“

Much cut him off, leaning forward and kissing him. His lips pressed hard against Robin’s, teeth scraped. Much’s hand was on the back of his head, fingers winding in his hair before Robin had a chance to react. He put his hands on Much’s shoulders, meaning to push him away. He just pulled him closer, falling backwards with Much’s weight on top of him, warm and heavy. Robin groaned against Much’s lips as a hand travelled over his chest and down his body. It stroked down his hip, then over his thigh. This assertiveness he really wasn’t used to.

Robin freed his mouth and took a breath. “But-“

“I forgive you.”

Robin gave up. He let his head fall back against the cave floor as Much trailed his lips over Robin’s jawline, and surrendered to the bittersweet pleasure of forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve. He would apologise properly to Much, he would. Just… not now.


	5. Keeping Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the bitter winter between seasons one and two.
> 
> Be aware of a bit of out-of-the-blue violence.

It was cold. Cold and dark. The kind of blackness drawn like a knitted shawl across your face, where you can’t see your hand if it’s three inches from your eyes. The kind of cold that killed. Much was no more than a hooded and cloaked hillock on the rise above camp, sitting in the mud with his knees under his chin and his hands over his nose. He kept his eyes closed. When he opened them, he couldn’t stop straining to see. It hurt his eyes. If he tried really hard, he could almost make out the shapes of the sleepers around the skeletal remains of the fire. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

Besides, with his useless eyes closed, he could hear much better. The forest was unnaturally still. How many little creatures would freeze to death this night, Much wondered, that Allan and John would go out digging for in the morning? Much hated to see them, their stiff little bodies with lips drawn back off their teeth and ice in their fur. A bundle of the wretched things warming over the fire, the melting ice dripping from their bodies just so that they were soft enough to be skinned and cooked. They were like a collection of evidence for all that was pitiless and futile about winter. About life.

How long before this set of not-so-little creatures froze? Much tensed against the shivering that ached in his muscles and thought of the press of bodies beneath him. They all slept together now, no exceptions, except for the watch. Much didn’t know how much longer they’d keep even watching up for. Who would be mad enough, in this weather…?

But he would do this stretch. He huddled closer into his clothes. The cold kept creeping in, encroaching on his pocket of meagre warmth on every side. He’d shift slightly and find his elbows frozen, or the outsides of his calves, or was suddenly unable to get his fingers warm again. The cold was winning, of course. It was like death: always got you in the end. Coldness and death came hand in hand. And they would, too, to this little anomaly of life and their scraps of warmth in the middle of a dead forest. Dead or dying. The deer were all long gone.

Yes. Soon enough death would begin to win this siege. One by one, they’d – the despair was welling up in him now like a half-frozen tide, like he felt in the Holy Land – they’d-

Much put his hands over his eyes. These nights. It was getting to him. It was the catalogue of things that weren’t good enough: sleeping outside in the forest, not getting enough food, dealing with frayed tempers and bouts of melancholy and frozen toes and the cold that never, ever seemed to go away once you no longer had anywhere warm to go. It was the having to patch together the skins of every wasted little rodent they killed or found dead to make just one more blanket. It was the merciless stars at night and the ineffectual sun during the day.

Would Robin miss him if he froze during the night? The thought was a ray of lucidity. Much examined it, oddly detached. Maybe they would acknowledge it as the first sign of their impending defeat. Maybe his death would warn them to get out while they could – anywhere but Sherwood Forest.

At least, he thought, he’d be good for something then. And afterwards they could use him for firewood.

Much jerked his head up, blinking. Night-time pressed in on his eyes. He had been almost asleep. If he fell asleep, there’d be no one to wake the next watch. If he fell asleep, there’d be no one to wake the others in the morning. It would be so easy to let them just slumber on into the land beyond. He shuddered suddenly, coming alive. He uncurled, stretching out his limbs and wincing at the chill’s bite. Oh, how he desperately wanted a fire! The warmth, however paltry, the light – the golden-orange light that danced on the frost and cast shadows on the treetrunks! He closed his eyes again and saw it, a smile curling the corners of his lips. If only.

He opened his eyes again. Something had changed. His skin tingled with alerted awareness. Something subtle in the fabric of the night, the breathing of the sleepers. Could he really see them, or was that an illusion? He strained his eyes. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Boo.”

Much leapt away from the voice at his ear, falling clumsily forward and grabbing handfuls of mud. His legs wrenched – bolt of pain – and then he twisted around. He couldn’t see a thing, but he already knew who it was. And felt like an idiot.

Robin’s hot breath was on his face, coming in little chuckling gasps. It was the sound of a man trying not to wake anyone else up. Much scrabbled backwards, squaring his jaw. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Oh, it was.” Robin’s fingertips brushed his cheek without warning. Much started, then forced himself to be still. There was a rough sound of fabric shifting, and then the feeling of Robin’s weight poised over him, barely held off. Much didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself (never could) – he lifted his hands and delicately, tentatively, placed them on Robin’s waist.

“What’s the matter, Much?” The words were spoken softly, near his ear. Robin eased down onto him, a firm, warm weight. Much winced as his legs complained.

“Nothing’s the matter.”

“Liar.” Robin’s breath was on his face now, his words a series of warm blessings on Much’s skin. “I always know.”

The matter? Much could think of a hundred incidents, a thousand little disappointments that made up life with Robin. He just turned his head until their noses collided and their breath met and mingled. Robin’s stubble rasped on his skin. Much ran his fingers lightly, reverently, up his body to his shoulders. Robin’s weight was pressed firmly against him. He thought he could catch a glitter in Robin’s eye; or maybe it was just a star above them. Robin’s fingers slipped under his hood, pushing his hat away, and winding into his hair. “Master,” he sighed, momentarily off-guard.

The grip tightened and pulled. Robin leaned back and let go, his elbows in the earth. “I’ll watch now. You can go and sleep.” There – that was a glint in his eye. “I’ve left a warm spot between Will and John.”

I’d rather be with you, Much wanted to say, but didn’t. It wasn’t his place. But Robin didn’t move off of him. He shifted so that he was between Much’s legs, bodies pressed together, fingers winding in Much’s hair again. Much could hardly breathe for Robin’s weight on top of him. “Too cold,” he whispered, meaning more. Too cold for all this. Too cold to play around like this. Surely – but he barely noticed the cold any more. Not with Robin on top of him, strangling his breath and keeping him warm. In fact, between his legs, he was on fire.

Robin’s lips caught his, held them with hot, wet breath and soft skin, the flicker of tongue. His hands were over Much’s cold ears, fingers in his hair, palms at his jawline. When he broke away, Much thought he could detect something ragged in Robin’s breathing.

“Right now,” Robin said, leaning in to kiss the dent at the meeting of Much’s collarbone. Much arched his neck, the cold on his skin like a sheath. His hands fisted on Robin’s shoulders. Robin pulled at Much’s cloak, and trailed hot breath and kisses down his chest, under his shirt. Much tensed, twisted his head to the side, and pushed at his shoulders.

Robin stopped. There was a rush of cold air as he sat back. Much let out a breath, drew in a new one that felt like it was made of ice, and sat up. He wanted Robin back, but didn’t give in. A silence, filled with the cold forest, and then Robin said, “What?”

If you don’t know, you don’t deserve to know. “It’s too cold.” Tremblingly, Much raised a hand, feeling out into the dark space in front of him for – well, anything. He found Robin’s arm and rested there, not squeezing, not stroking, just touching, through gloves and cloak and shirts. “It’s not…” He struggled for words and, closer than comfort, heard Robin snort.

“Much,” he said, “if you don’t tell me what’s wrong with you, I’m going to… to…” He petered out.

Much blinked in darkness. “You don’t know what to say,” he said, quietly astonished at each word that left his mouth. There were dangerous words behind his lips, pressing to get out. “You don’t know how to threaten me because there’s nothing worse than this. Slowly dying in a midwinter forest.”

“We’re not dying!” Too loud for the forest’s quiet. Down below, John stirred, turning over in his sleep like an earthquake on a mountain. In the silence that followed, Robin’s breath was harsh. Then, more quietly: “We’re not dying. If we’re going to get through this, I need your support.”

“You sound like the Sheriff.” Much’s head was ringing. He felt giddy with his own audaciousness. He’d done it now. Really, really done it now. In a moment the dismay would catch up with him. Surely it would.

Robin had gone very still. Where their legs were still entwined, Much felt Robin drawing back slightly. Then, an instantaneous sound of movement before an explosion of light and then pain in the side of his head. Much found himself flat on his back again, staring up at the darkness. But it wasn’t darkness any more. It was blurred now with dizzying lights. There was a woollen feeling to his head and a radiating nexus of ache at his temple as he raised his head and tried to make out Robin’s shape.

The silence pressed in on him. Much swallowed and felt a lump in his throat. He clenched his jaw and tried his best not to let it get the better of him. He concentrated hard on the sound of Robin breathing.

Then Robin said, “I’m sorry.” There was something wrong with his voice; it was too flat, too raw, too penitent to belong to him. Much raised himself on his elbows. Robin was still half-knelt, half-crouched between his legs. His breathing was unsteady.

“Master?”

“I’m sorry, Much.” The breath tore in and out, dragging audible hurt with it. Much put out his hands and found Robin shaking. “I’m sorry. I’m- I-“

Much sat up and, hesitating only momentarily, put his arms around Robin. He rested his chin on his shoulder. Robin was trembling violently now, breath juddering out of him in little whimpers. Little bits of fear turned over in Much’s belly. He hadn’t cried like this since the Holy Land. He couldn’t find any words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. Still, he tried anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It hardly even hurt.”

Robin made a noise that sounded like choking. It took Much a moment to realise it was a laugh – or something resembling one. He pulled away. Much could see nothing but the starlight in his eyes. “Hardly even hurt,” Robin repeated, with such a tinge of scorn in his voice that it stung. “That’s the point, Much, don’t you see? You.”

Much nodded, even though it was a useless gesture in the darkness. He struggled to keep his voice even as he said, “Yes, I remember.” Bit lip. Swallow. Continue. “A pox.”

“No!” There was a sudden movement and Much flinched, expecting another blow – but Robin’s hands just gripped his shoulders. “I didn’t mean what I said then.” There was a quiet moment while Much digested this information and Robin audibly struggled for words. “Look, you know how quick to speak I am when I’m-” Pause again.

“You never said anything like it when we were in the Holy Land,” Much said, half under his breath so that Robin could choose not to hear it if he wanted. But from the quality of the silence that followed, Much guessed that he had. He wished now that he’d never opened his mouth in the first place. The side of his head throbbed.

A breeze blew. The leaves whispered. Much drew his cloak tighter around himself. The cold bit hardest on the inside of his thighs and his neck. The only other sound was the sound of their breathing. Robin’s was steadying again as he pulled himself together. Taking a deep breath, Much reached up and took one of Robin’s hands in his and squeezed. The feeling was muffled through thick gloves, but Robin didn’t pull away. Instead he shifted closer so that Much could feel his breath on his lips and said, “I’ll get us out of here.”

Much itched to close the rest of the gap between them and kiss him, but he held himself back. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll find a way to get us out of this forest, at least for the winter.” Robin’s voice was urgent now. “You were right when you said we’re going to die here. I’ll get us safe, I promise.” There was some new tone under the words as well, a new edge that Much hadn’t heard before, even in the Holy Land. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“You promise?”

Robin’s other hand curled around his. “If I’m never true to anything else in my life, I’ll keep this promise.”

Much didn’t know whether to trust him. He sounded too eager, too nearly-hysterical – but what else was there? Robin’s words represented Robin’s essence: hope. Who knew if there was any substance behind it? Nevertheless, it didn’t matter. Much knew he didn’t have any choice. “Very well. But I’ll see to it that you do.” He put an audible smile in his words, one he didn’t feel. But then Robin pressed forward and smothered his fears with a kiss.


	6. Upon Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much has nightmares. Robin has a unique way of consoling him.

When Much woke – that one fateful time of waking – it seemed especially difficult to struggle through the strings and knots of cobwebby slumber to the surface and its clarity, more difficult than usual. Enfolded in warm, dark dreams, his first reaction was to recoil; but whatever it was kept badgering him, breaking through his happy sleep and insisting that something darker, more dangerous was going on in the world outside.

And then Robin’s voice. Robin’s voice could command him from the dead, if he was needed.

He struggled out of his blankets, heavy-limbed and sleepy-eyed, feet hitting the floor before he had fully woken up. When he shoved the tent flap aside and stumbled into the air, it was to the confusion of a grey dawn filled with moving bodies. Robin was gone. Much shifted the bundle he’d made of his sword and jacket in his arms and glanced around, something cold and very like dread bubbling up inside him. Raid, Saracen raid – the watchwords echoed in his skull. The wind hissed over the desert, blowing sand into his eyes. He turned away. And saw.

Robin was not gone. As time seemed to stop, Much recognised the shape not fifty feet from the tent he shared with his master. It was a dark blot against the sand. He thought he would recognise it anywhere.

In that infinitely long moment, Much thought (very distantly) that he might have been stabbed. There was a twisting, wrenching agony in his chest, sudden and immediate, that hinged on the terrible certainty that it was his master, that his master was hurt, possibly dying, and he, Much, couldn’t help him because he was about to collapse right here on the sand and there was nothing he could do, nothing –

With an immense effort, he hauled himself out of the reverie and found himself staggering forward on legs that were heavy and numb and jarred with each step, moving forward just so as not to fall over. Somehow, miraculously, he didn’t lose his grip on his sword, though his fingers slipped and slid over the metal hilt. The space between himself and Robin seemed to stretch forever, an age of soft sand that clung and sucked at his boots (he slept in his boots, would die in his boots). When he fell to his knees by his master’s side and saw him turn his face up towards him – ghostly grey and vivid – he felt the pain in his chest twist harder.

“Master!” The words spilled from his mouth without any intervention from his mind, it seemed. “You’re wounded!”

He could feel each painful breath going in and out of his master’s chest. “Get help – the King’s tent – now!”

Much obeyed. He didn’t know how to do anything else. But as he fought the sand and his weak knees to get his feet again and force himself away, Robin’s body – please God never dead body, not while he was still alive to see – gone from under his hands, that thing in his chest gave another, heartstopping wrench and he almost turned, almost refused, almost – but didn’t. Before he knew it he was running away. His legs were like lead as he laboured up the incline, and he was running through air that seemed to have turned to treacle. He couldn’t force his legs faster and the breath was burning in his throat; the world was swimming and blurring and Much realised that his eyes were wet with tears. And in front of him, shining bright and coldly ferocious, the sun was beginning to rise.

The light was everywhere. It filled the world. It was everything. It seemed to crystallise around him, stopping him in his tracks. The thought that made that hurt in his chest pierce deeper was that if he didn’t find help, if he didn’t fight past the fatal rising of the sun over the desert, Robin would die. And his heart would break.

“Much. Much!”

He struggled, fighting the clinging sand and the light and the lowering darkness that was threatening to demolish at last all thought and all energy. And that was when a bolt of sudden pain exploded in the side of his head, so different in texture and meaning that he stopped fighting and gasped, the indrawn breath of a drowning man breaching the surface of the waves. He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Robin’s face. It was very close to his, warm breath blooming on his nose and lips. Robin’s eyes were two dark smudges, mouth a paler smear. Much blinked, and he came further into focus. Not dead, oh please not dead... Robin smiled, his patient, I’ve-been-waiting smile, and the pain in Much’s chest was suddenly gone, leaving behind it an emptiness, a lightness, and there was room to breathe.

Robin’s hands came up to caress Much’s cheeks, pick a dead leaf out of his hair. Much grasped for Robin, found his tunic, and held on, bunching it up in his fists. “Master...”

“You were dreaming.” Robin’s smile relaxed, subsiding into nothing. His thumb stroked across Much’s bottom lip, so gently that he might not have done it at all. “You were thrashing about in your sleep, mumbling something... I couldn’t make it out.”

Much closed his eyes briefly – when he opened them again, Robin was still there. Much sent up silent thanks to God. “It was Acre.”

An expression twisted Robin’s face and was gone again, too quickly for Much to decipher. For a moment he looked on the brink of saying something. His lips parted, seemed to waver on the cusp of a word. Then he moved his head forward, Much’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

It wasn’t like other kisses. It wasn’t a Robin-kiss. It was soft, and long, and lingering. It was warm. It was full of held breath. Robin’s thumbs stroked over Much’s cheeks, down to his chin, rasping over stubble. When he broke away, his eyes seemed to speak all the apologies that had never passed his lips before.

“Sometimes I dream that you’re dead,” Much said, the faintest of tremors in his voice. “That you died in Acre, and left me alone.” Robin’s hand skirted across Much’s forehead, brushing away a lock of hair. Much let his eyes fall closed, hands clenched in the fabric over Robin’s chest, where his heart still beat under the living flesh. Robin’s fingers trailed along the line of his jaw before moving down, to smooth over his shoulder, and then across his chest. His waist. When Robin’s hand found the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing his bare skin, Much’s breath hitched again, catching in his throat.

“Perhaps you still need some convincing,” Robin purred, breath ghosting over Much’s ear, “that I’m still alive. Would you like me to prove it to you?”

Much squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall forward into the curve of Robin’s neck, where it met his shoulder. The hard length of his collarbone was pressing into Much’s nose. Lifting the hem of Much’s shirt, the flat of Robin’s hand brushed over Much’s stomach, sending delectable shivers over his skin. It lighted again on his waist, on the curve of soft flesh between ribcage and hipbone.

“Well?” Robin’s other hand curled protectively around the back of Much’s head, fingers twining in his hair.

“Yes.” It shuddered out of him in a single breath. His own hands, releasing Robin’s tunic, found their way to his master’s shoulders, neck, stubbled jaw. Robin had been lying beside him; he now shifted, moving closer. His hand, poised at a vital juncture between the possibilities of up and down, stroked a thumb gently over the soft hair furring Much’s navel, and then chose down. His fingers slid under the waistband of Much’s trousers, and paused again.

“Just yes?”

Much’s fists clenched, wrapped in Robin’s hair. His voice came out a strangled whisper, “Yes! Yes, please, Master, _please_...”

“Don’t worry,” Robin murmured, breath hot against Much’s neck, as he began to work at the lacings at the front of Much’s trousers one-handed. Much felt himself hardening helplessly under Robin’s hand and bit down hard on his bottom lip. Robin’s leg lay heavily across his own. “I’m alive. Have faith in me.”

“I do,” Much whimpered, breath coming harder now, “you wouldn’t believe how much I do...”


	7. Sandwich

Much sniffled, stirred in his sleep, and tried to turn. Leaves crackled. Robin mumbled something from the tangles of a dream, and tightened his grip on the hem of Much’s shirt. And Much found something in his way.

This something jagged against his unconscious idea of whereabouts, and he frowned, half-awake now. This something was pressed up against him, closer than Robin. Much found it with his half-clenched fists and pushed.

The something made a sleepy, irritated noise in Will’s voice, and flailed out with an arm, striking Much across the shoulder. Much struggled to open his eyes. It was dark. Night-dark. No sunlight filtering through the slats and cracks of Will’s master camp. It was dark and he was warm. Toasty warm. Every bit of him. Now that was unusual.

And then he remembered. Ale. Late night. Hugging. Then - more than hugging. He felt a flush creeping over his cheeks, and poked Will in the back. “Will?”

Will turned over, noisily exhaling and snuggling his head into Much’s shoulder. He flung one arm out over Much. His fist hit Robin, who made a ‘mmnnm?’ noise and tried to pull Much closer. Will tightened his hold.

Much closed his eyes again, lowering his head back onto the shirt he used for a pillow. He wondered exactly how much sleep he was going to get tonight. Then again... he was very warm, and there was something reassuring about the solidity of two bodies sandwiching his. Perhaps being in the middle wouldn’t prove to be so bad.

Perhaps it was a performance they wouldn’t mind to repeat.


	8. The Art of Being Happy

Much liked to think that he was a happy person. He tried to stay cheerful, even when the forest was wet and dripping and cold and clammy, and when mould got into his clothes or game was scarce and they had to dig out meat from buried stores that was tough and disturbingly coloured. Even when the Sheriff and his men won the day. Even after losing Roy, or Eve, or his home – be it at Locksley with Robin or at Bonchurch, he couldn’t quite deduce.

Despite this, it was days like this that showed him what happiness really was.

Happiness was a wide open meadow and a lazy sun overhead, the grass all colours of gentle green and gold and purple and summertime fluff from the trees floating on the heavy air. It was the softest breeze on his face, and the way the sunshine beat on his closed eyelids. It was picking dandelion clocks, all soft downy grey and lighter than air, and not being able to think of anything more to wish for when he blew them. Happiness was lying on the grass, still half undressed, with Robin curled warm and solid at his back and his arm thrown carelessly over Much’s chest.

Robin was asleep. Much rested his head on his master’s shoulder and gazed up, through the waving stalks of long grass, into the palest of cerulean skies.


	9. Silent Night

“Master!”

“Mmn.”

“Master, wake up!”

“_Nnmh!_” More emphatic now, accompanied by briefly flailed arm.

Much, gently, shook Robin’s shoulder. “Master, you’ve got to wake up.”

Robin cracked one eye open, eyebrows drawn tightly down. What he said next was an indistinct syllable that took Much a few moments to distinguish as ‘Why?’.

“Do you know what day it is?”

This time both Robin’s eyes opened, and sought out Much’s. More awake now, and suspicious: “No.” A pause. “Unless...” Another. And then, in a flurry of limbs and blankets, Robin sat up and grinned. “Unless you’ve got a present for me?”


	10. Regained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set right after the events of S2E02.

Much drifted back into consciousness, the strings of gummy-eyed sleep still clinging to him. The first thing he was aware of was warmth. He was deliciously warm, warm to the tips of his toes and his ears; the brittle autumn cold was gone, for once. He felt solid all the way through, blood, muscles and bones. The gentle sounds of the others’ breathing – as normal to him now as his own skin – seemed to be whispering him to sleep.

He opened his eyes. Only the ember-glow and the smallest, struggling flicker of flame were still alive in the firepit. They threw on the bodies of the sleepers the barest kind of radiance.

Allan was across the fire from where Much lay. He slept awkwardly, his face half turned into his arms. As Much watched, a trace of a frown passed across his face and then was gone again. He made a quiet noise in his sleep, and Will’s hand snaked sleepily around his waist, fingers tightening on Allan’s shirt. Much turned his eyes away.

Little John was a ragged mountain, asleep where he had been sitting against the twisted fall of roots that protruded like fingers from the wall of the camp. In the strangely cast shadows, Much could just make out his closed eyes, and the lines of sleep-tension around them. Close beside him – but not quite touching – was Djaq. She was curled in her blankets like a cat. Her face was in shadow.

Something inside Much stirred. He set his jaw against it. Something about her, how small she was, her strength muted in sleep – he stirred, on the brink of getting up – but a body moved against his back. Robin’s legs nudged his, drawing in closer, and his hand slid and stayed, flat, on Much’s hip.

Much closed his eyes again and remembered the day before. His mind skated over poisoned arrows and hot lead, and he grabbed Robin’s arm harder than he perhaps should have done and pulled it over him, so that his back was flush against Robin’s chest and Robin’s fingers (curled loosely in sleep like a child’s) pressed against his mouth. He kissed the scraped skin under his lips.

“Much?” A soft sound, from the remains of his master’s dreams. “’S’matter?”

“Nothing.” Much laced his fingers through Robin’s, and thought he felt an answering squeeze. “Nothing at all.”


	11. Bathtime

When Robin finally returned, it was to a camp that had, for the past couple of hours anyway, been empty and peaceful. Almost empty, anyway. Much didn’t count himself because, when he was alone, all he liked to do was lie back amidst the leaves, his head on a bundle made of his leather jerkin, and doze. It was summer. The breeze would cool his skin and the whisper of the leaves overhead would lull him into pleasant dreams.

Pleasant dreams were hard to come by, Much found, these days.

It was from dreams that the sound of hooves on the loam, a heavy and threatening sound, woke him. For a few moments he was trapped in tangles of confusion; he struggled up through layers of sleep, heart thudding, telling him that this was it, this was really it, the biggest blunder in his history of them, he had been caught asleep and now the enemy were coming –

Then he opened his eyes, and the wind rustling the trees was gentle against his burning skin. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the leaves, living and dead, and the wild garlic and thyme. And something else, too.

When he looked up, the first thing he saw was Robin. In the next moment, he reconsidered – because surely Robin didn’t look like a mud-monster from the depths of the marshes? Then, head clearing, he stood – legs trembling for a moment under him, unsteady with sleep – and regarded his master as he dismounted and haphazardly twined the reins around a branch. (Much made a mental note to re-tie them when Robin was not looking; thankfully the horse wasn’t prone to bolting.)

“Master,” Much said, moving towards a decidedly moody-looking Robin, “Did it go well? Did you recover the letters?” He stopped a few feet short. That smell was stronger here, around Robin and his imperfect coating of muck. He looked like a bog-bogey.“What’s that -” Robin’s brows lowered still further over smouldering eyes. “You didn’t? Not the waste chute again?”

Robin cocked his head tersely, and something in the set of his jaw gave Much to intuit that he wasn’t in the mood for answering questions. “Yes, Much. The waste chute.” He shrugged off his pack and left it laying where it fell. He clenched his fists and stormed past Much (who suppressed an irreverent and, he thought, very uncompassionate snort of laughter).

Much sighed, vicariously disappointed, and stooped to retrieve Robin’s abandoned pack. Shouldering it himself, he turned and set off in Robin’s wake at a jog. “Well, Master,” he said, smiling a not-wholly unamused smile, “we need to get you out of those dirty clothes.”


	12. Where You Lead

Much’s feet hurt. His back ached. He was sick of looking at leaves and twigs, and his own thoughts weren’t enough to entertain him as he walked, fingers twined in the reins of the horse he led. In fact, he felt inclined to leave them alone. They were full of faithlessness and bad things.

“How much longer?” he called. Robin was well ahead of him. He turned back. Much caught a glimpse of a smile.

“Not far. I’m sure we’re almost there.”

Much hoisted his pack further up his shoulders and redoubled his pace. He hoped it was worth it.


	13. So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during S2E08.

Time out of time. Being, but not being the one you thought you were. A pocket of existence that seemed to have been plucked right out of reality and infused with something rarer, more magical. Much had never pondered these concepts before today. He wondered if he was becoming a philosopher.

Carter had cornered him in the morning (before the real cornering went on, the one with the rope and the sword). He had still been a stranger then, and a strange stranger at that. Intense. Mysterious. Exotically opaque in motive and history. He had pinned Much with gimlet eyes and asked, “Are you _so_?”

Much had stared and stammered. Carter had smirked.

“You are.”

Later on, a different Carter had sought him out in the forest. He had spent a full ten minutes sitting beside Much above the camp, hands clasped under his chin, elbows on his knees, not saying a word. When finally Much had been able to take no more and had blurted out, “Are you... you know... what you said?” Carter had looked around at him, mild surprise written across his face with a light hand. “Why, yes. I tend to think so.”

After that, it had only been a matter of time – and awkwardness on Much’s part, and the slow perseverence of a glacier on Carter’s – to bring them to this point. A solitary meadow. The sun, listing heavily at one side of the sky. Bare, cooling skin. The light, sacred touch of toes to toes.

Carter would be gone by evening, Much knew, and the spell would be broken. For now, though – he rolled over onto his stomach, long grass tickling his bare skin, and smiled his best winning smile (the one previously reserved for Robin) at Carter – they had to make the most of the time they had.


	14. And

This was a revolution. It was a riot. It was a mutiny on the streets. The feel of two pairs of lips on his skin, two pairs of hands on his body, two solid bodies here beside him in the solitude of the forest. It was Robin and Carter. Carter and Robin. It didn’t fit into any headspace Much could come up with.

“This is what we do,” Robin had said, and Carter had smiled – not the old smirk, like twisted wood, but the real smile, the Carter-reborn smile. Much couldn’t get enough of that smile, and it was a little frightening how easily he had become intoxicated by this new man when Robin had taken him years.

Two men. Two men. There was no denying it. They were as different as two tastes on the tongue. Robin was familiar, and darker, and more worn about the edges. Much could anticipate any move his master could make with ease greased by years of sleeping beside him. Carter was fresh, and his smile – that smile – was like sunlight.

“Stay,” one of them – Robin or Much – said, and it was a gasp from the depths of a world made of the scratchiness of dead leaves and stubble and the softness of skin and hair and well-worn, discarded clothes. Carter only smiled against one of their mouths and said nothing.

Robin and Carter. Carter and Robin. Much couldn’t figure it out, but, he supposed, he didn’t really need to.


	15. Fallen

Much leaned back against the tree. It pressed hard into his shoulders, his spine, the back of his head. His fingers stroked over the tangles of Robin’s hair, easing through them absently. He thanked heaven that somewhere along the line he’d had the presence of mind to sit down – even here, in the muddy nook between roots – before all this began. Robin’s mouth and tongue and lips – envelopingly, burningly hot – on him made his knees feel made of water. Then there was Carter’s eyes over Robin’s head, blue and intense; and the way the leaf-dappled pattern of sunlight and shadows played over Robin’s bare shoulders and back (colour of honey and peaches, sharp angles and rounded corners) made him feel light-headed.

Carter knelt behind Robin, one hand flat on Robin’s bent back, smoothing small circles. Legs apart, chin lifted, he would have given the impression of a soldier about to be executed if it weren’t for the way his shirt hung half open over his chest (casting odd, sensual shadows), or how his trousers, unlaced, were somehow neither off nor on, baring soft, pale skin and golden hair and his other hand around his own hard-on; his lips too moist, his breath too shallow. All his soul seemed to be in his eyes. They wouldn’t let Much look away.

No, Much realised. Where ‘all this began’ was somewhere further away than an hour ago, left alone together under the trees. He had had the sense to begin this sitting down; but if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he had already fallen. (He was having trouble concentrating now, coherent thought disintegrating in the turbulence of sensation, the white-hot trickles of ecstasy shivering up his body from where his master bent.) He hadn’t known it was possible to fall for two. (Head pulling to one side, blood hot in his cheeks and threads of burning sensation threatening to overwhelm him, but he couldn’t break Carter’s gaze. Much begged him with his eyes. Please.)

One of Robin’s hands, warm and solid, found one of his, and gripped, hard. Carter smiled, the faintest coital tension shimmering under his skin, and closed his eyes. Much tipped his head back and surrendered.


	16. Must Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after S2E08.

“You must be so disappointed.” Marian wasn’t looking at him as she spoke; her eyes were lost in the fire. “Especially in him, I mean.”

“I must be.” Yes, he must be. Much stared at her. He could read her thoughts from her face. He must be so disappointed, so lost, so confused, so angry. He must be devastated to have lost it all for the sake of a man who didn’t care. When he could see his own irrelevence in Robin’s eyes every day, he must be. Because, surely, if he wasn’t – what kind of pathetic creature was he?


	17. Pigeons

“Robin?”

“Mmm..” Robin twitched and frowned from the depths of sleep. Much could feel the hitch in Robin’s breath on his cheeks, his nose. He pulled the blanket up a little higher over the both of them, stroked a finger softly over Robin’s cheek (stubbled and rough), and sighed.

“Robin, there’s something I should tell you.”

Robin stirred, brow creasing. His knees pulled up a little further, arms curled protectively over his chest – then he was still again. Much put his hand over one of Robin’s and squeezed lightly.

“I know you don’t want to hear my story, but I think you should know.” He paused, listening for a change in Robin’s breathing. There was none. “You think my story is your story, but it’s not true. You don’t know how I lived. You don’t know how we who weren’t noble lived.” A moment’s silence. Much watched the last of the fire’s glow play out on Robin’s sleeping face. “It was hell.”

“Mmmpf?” Robin turned his face further into the blanket and half reached out with one hand. Much caught it in his and wound his fingers through Robin’s, holding his breath. After a few moments, Robin relaxed.

“It was hell,” Much whispered, “burning hot and freezing cold, and filthy, and ridden with death and disease. If a man faltered – if he should get badly cut or do something so as to be flogged – he was as good as dead.” He stopped, took a breath, and tried to control the trembling in his body. “I thought I would die.” It was making his voice shake now. “I was sure I would.” Swallow, bite lip, begin again. “Never see Locksley, never see England again. Sometimes I was certain I couldn’t take any more, I was too afraid, so afraid I was hiding under my blanket at night, quaking, thinking that there was no way I could get up in the morning and go on living.”

Robin slept on, brow smooth now, untroubled. He didn’t stir, even when Much disentangled his fingers from his and fisted his hands in his own shirt to keep from shaking.

“But I did,” he said. “And why?” There was no answer. “Because of you, Robin. You got up in the morning, so I did too. Because you were my master and I couldn’ t let you down.” He took another deep breath. The trembling was subsiding now. “Remember what Djaq said about the pigeons? That when you let them go they would fly halfway across the world just to return to their mate. The power of love.” He wasn’t sure whether he meant it ironically or not, but Robin still slept, so he didn’t have to explain it. “I would follow you to hell and back, Robin. Like a pigeon.”

Robin murmured something in his sleep, his hands opening and closing on nothing. Much shifted closer, but a whisper from behind him made him stiffen.

“Much.” It was Will’s voice. “Go to sleep. He’s not listening.”

Much closed his eyes and set his jaw, face burning. He was glad it was too dark for Will to be able to see. There was something clogging up his throat, so that he could barely breathe. He squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that coloured lights burst and died behind his lids.

Then a light touch on his clenched fist made him open them again. Robin, eyes still closed, had closed one hand around Much’s. He tugged it to him, up to his lips, where his breath flowered warm across Much’s skin. He murmured in his sleep again, then was still.

Much sighed, and closed his eyes again.


	18. Memories (A Love Story)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set long before the events of the series. A quintet of memories of Much's youth with Robin.
> 
> Be aware of a brief threat of noncon in the first section.

i.

“You’re a freak, you know that?”

Much did. He stepped back, away from David, and lowered his head to try to hide the way his face burned. He couldn’t remember exactly how it had come to this. He didn’t want to remember.

David matched every backward step Much took with one of his own, towards him. “It’s sick. Fuckin’ sick.” David wasn’t like the other boys that worked at the hall, or in the village. David ran with a different crowd. Two years older than Much, he was a scrawny seventeen year-old, but there was wiry power in his muscles. He didn’t look it, but he was a man.

Much wasn’t. He couldn’t be, he thought, backing away. A man would fight. A man wouldn’t be afraid. He dragged a dirty sleeve across his eyes, in case David should see that they were too bright. A man certainly didn’t cry.

“You and that Locksley boy, the little heir... Don’t think I don’t know. Don’t think I can’t see it in your bleedin’ eyes.”

The wind strengthened, moaning through the branches. Leaves blew and scattered around them like rain, gusting in whirls across the forest floor then away again. It was barely past noon and almost too dark in the forest to see. Much thought he heard the first patter of raindrops on the leaves above them.

“There’s a storm coming,” he managed. His voice sounded uneven. “We should get back.” He couldn’t look at David. Angry energy fizzed from the older boy.

“Don’t give me that.” David suddenly lunged forward and shoved, hard.

The impact of his hands was like two hot, heavy bruises of shame on Much’s chest. He almost lost his balance; he stumbled backwards, arms flailing ungracefully, and caught himself against a tree. Despite himself, he let out a thin whimper.

Something that was nearly a grin, nearly a grimace twisted across David’s face and was gone again, like a spasm. His eyes burned. “Little freak that y’are, I knew it.” He crossed the distance between them in two strides and caught Much’s arms. He pinned him against the tree.

Before Much could understand how it had happened – he didn’t understand how any of it had happened – David’s face was inches from his. They were sharing the same hot breath, the same stare. Much couldn’t look away. His stomach was turning inside out. His skin tingled. He wanted to be away from here; wanted to be home in Locksley, with his young master. If Robin were here...

“Please,” he said, and it came out as a whisper. It was enough to let him break David’s gaze, and turn his face away. David’s breath flowered hot against his cheek. “Don’t.” If Robin were here, he would be safe.

“Please,” David laughed, “don’t!” His grip tightened on Much’s arms. “Don’t give me that. You’re pathetic. You hear me?” He pushed his face closer. “Do you?” Much pressed his lips together and closed his eyes.

An open-handed slap caught him across the face, and took him by surprise. His head snapped back and connected with the tree. Light exploded behind his eyelids, and he opened his eyes.

“Pretty blue eyes,” David said, and his mouth twisted. “Get down on your knees.”

Much stared at him. “What?”

“You heard!”

Another slap stunned him, crushing his lips back against his teeth. He swallowed, and tasted blood. Then he looked up at David.

The light was dimming. A gust of wind brought a sudden scatter of rain across them. The forest was dark, and smelled of damp. David’s face was barely an inch away. Their noses were almost touching. “Get on your knees and-”

Much tightened his jaw and brought his knee up between David’s legs. David crumpled, silent except for a breath that snarled out between his teeth as he buckled. Much, released, caught the front of his shirt and yanked. David turned his face up in time to meet Much’s fist. It smashed into his nose, and blood spurted in a surprising splash of red.

Much dropped him, and watched as David folded to the ground. Dark blood spattered the leaf litter. Another curtain of rain gusted across them. Much looked at his hands. The knuckles of his left – the one he had punched with – throbbed. Then he looked down at David. David was curled on the ground, bloodied hands over his face.

Much ran.

ii.

When he was small, Much had barely known who Robin of Locksley was. The idea of a young heir to the earldom was hardly more than a tickle at the back of his mind at the best of times; most days he forgot about him completely. In the days before Robin, Much didn’t have many friends. There were a few children from the village who would tolerate him for a certain time before they drifted away. When they did, Much didn’t really mind. He was content in his own company.

He liked to hang around the kitchens at Locksley. He would sit under the big table and dream the day away while he watched feet and calves bustle about, always busy, or listen to the women exchanging village gossip. He loved the thick, steamy feel of the air when he breathed it in, loved the myriad different aromas of cooking food, loved eavesdropping on the goodwives’ little tips and recipes. Sometimes, if they were in a good mood, when they discovered him hiding they would lightly scold him, twist his ear, and let him taste the stews and soups simmering in their pots.

When he felt like fresh air, he liked to lie on his stomach on the ground, amidst the plants, behind Locksley Hall, in that place where no one else went because it was always in shadow and sometimes a cold wind blew through. He would construct tiny lean-tos with sticks amidst the grass stalks, and he would gently corral beetles and worms into them. He liked the space behind the Great Hall, because no one ever found him there; no one found him and pushed him over and stamped on his beetles.

It was here, in this little space between Locksley Hall and a fringe of trees, that he first met the young heir of the village and the earldom.

It was a Monday. Much remembered it clearly because the day before he had been cornered before reaching the freedom of the open air and led unwillingly by the hand to church. Now, he had no idea anyone but him was present as he concentrated on the walls of the new woodlouse pen, jamming the most even sticks he could find into the earth, until a deeper shadow fell over him, and he looked up.

Much didn’t know exactly how old he was. He had been told by Grace, the woman who looked after him, that he might be six or seven. The boy who stood over him now, watching him with winning blue eyes, might have been a year or two younger, he thought. This wouldn’t matter if he decided he wanted to beat Much up. Much scrambled to his feet and backed away, watching the boy with wary eyes.

The boy smiled, showing an uneven set of milk teeth. “I’m Robin.”

Much scuffed a foot, twisted his hands together, and didn’t meet Robin’s eyes. “Hello.” He wasn’t going to surrender too much; he didn’t know the boy’s plans yet.

Robin sat suddenly, as if his legs had gone out from under him. He beamed up at Much. “What do they call you?”

Disarmed by this boy Robin’s apparently peaceful motives, Much shrugged and remained standing up. “Much.”

“That’s a funny name.” Robin glanced around him, taking in Much’s beetle farm and the shadows between the trees. “Why do they call you that?”

Much’s thumb travelled absently to his mouth. He had been scolded about that before, but kept forgetting. He spoke around it. “My mother. Before she died. She used to say ‘he’s not much, but he’s my son.’” He had told the story so many times now it had taken on a recitory quality. He had inherited it from Grace.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Much shrugged again and sat down. “Who are you?”

iii.

Much had started ‘becoming a man’, as it had been called, at the same time as Robin. Ever since he and the young master had become friends, he had taken to telling his age as a year older than Robin’s. When Robin was thirteen, he was fourteen. And yet, still, Robin tended to reach milestones before Much. He had started learning to fight with a sword first; Much would never have learned had Robin not pleaded with his father to let his friend learn alongside him. Much never forgot what a favour he had been done in being allowed to hold a real sword. It was because of this, perhaps, that he never really felt at ease with it. When he tripped over himself or fumbled a pass, Robin laughed – but good-naturedly.

He had noticed the differences in their bodies appearing at the same time. Robin was his first friend, and for some reason unfathomable to Much, actually liked it when they spent all day together. They lay on the grass, faces turned up to the sun; they chased each other around the fields; they swam together in the river.

It was this last that got Much into trouble.

He woke, one night, in the sweaty, heavy darkness of the hours before dawn, tangled in his own bedlinen. His hair was sweat-stuck his forehead. His lip hurt, from biting it in his sleep. Much stared up into the blackness, listening to Grace and her sister, Annette, breathing beside him. Their warmth prickled his skin. Quietly, carefully, Much peeled the linen away from him and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. The bed creaked and he held his breath, but the sisters slept soundly on.

On cat-feet he left the room.

The door opened onto the yard, dusty from the days of summer sun. Much closed the door behind him and leant back against the wall of the shack, in shadow. The night air moved softly against the bare skin of his legs, cooling the dream sweat. Since he had noticed the changes in himself and Robin he had taken to wearing a light tunic to bed.

He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes, and allowed the substance of the dream to come back to him.

The river, a bright summer’s day. The light glanced off the water in dazzling arrows. The water, when he waded into it, was deliciously cold, sending goosebumps shivering over his skin. He forced himself further in, letting the water first lap at his shins, his knees, his thighs, then...

Robin wasn’t one for wading. “Look out, Much!” Much barely had time to turn his head and see Robin barrelling towards him, grinning his devil-may-care grin, before he ran straight into him, his weight bearing them forwards and toppling them over, into the freezing water.

Then Much was underwater, submerged in the sparkling river, his back scraping the golden silty bed – and strangely, he found, he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind because his limbs were entangled with Robin’s, and their bodies slid against each other, and Robin’s hands were on his back, fingers digging into his skin as his mouth came down on Much’s, all warm and wet –

Much shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. When he opened them, the first thing he saw was the dark shape of Locksley Hall, painted against the darker shadows of the forest. This couldn’t go on, he thought, even as his left hand slipped down his body and under the hem of his tunic. It wasn’t right! Much bit down hard on his lip as he grasped himself, and his eyes remained on the place he knew Robin’s window to be.

iv.

Now, when Much closes his eyes, more often than not he sees Acre. He sees the tumbled bodies on the golden-yellow walls, the blood running in the gutters. He sees the wide scorching sky above. He sees the faces of the dead.

Acre ambushes him when he doesn’t want it to. Left alone, he’ll potter around peacefully as well as he can, and all he’ll see is what’s in front of him. But sooner or later, the screams will fill his ears and his eyes will fill up with blood until he can no longer tell Saracen from his brothers who’ve taken the cross, and once again he’ll be stumbling over the bodies, swiping blood from his eyes and calling for Robin.

When this happens, someone will find him, standing very still and staring into the middle distance, breathing shallowly. And when they try to rouse him, the recognition will only come back into his eyes slowly, and it’s accompanied by something like fear, or like sorrow.

The final, decisive push. The camp had passed the feverish nightmare of the Eastern winter and loped malarially into summer, driving and driving endlessly against the walls of the city. They said there was a breach. They always said there was a breach. All Much ever saw was yellow dust, his brothers in a screaming, hideous onrush all around him, and the enemy, an impression of mad eyes and flashing blades. It seemed only luck, to him, that he managed to catch each attack on his sword, swing it away, find his own footing and thrust into his attacker. Half the time he was blinded by the dust, just slashing into the space in front of him, and praying to God to protect him, please protect him, let him see his master again, let him see England again...

More often than not, it was a rout, a hellish, racing retreat back to the safety of the camp, to where the Saracens wouldn’t chase them any further. Much would limp back among the tents with the others, among the debris of long occupation, among the filth and the sick and the dead, and find his way back to Robin’s tent. He would hide there, in the stuffy shade, away from the chaos, until Robin returned. Every time, he could feel his heart slowly breaking, each minute, each second, until the tent flap lifted and and it was Robin silhouetted in the honey-coloured light, ducking inside.

In the days following an attack, the camp would gather itself again, putting together its broken pieces in readiness for another push. This was the function of the war. They had made a solemn oath to see the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem and they would see it, even if they had to make the journey inch by bloody inch all the way.

Except that wasn’t the way it went. Except that, in a dawn raid on the camp, under a bone-pale sky and while the earth seemed grey and cold, his master had almost died.

Much will always remember Robin’s blood on his hands.

v.

“Oh.” Robin looked down at his leg, and the expression on his face looked like nothing so much as a slightly troubled frown. “Much, I-” He wobbled on his one knee, his broken leg stretched out awkwardly before him, the way it had slipped. Much darted forwards, almost stumbling over an outcropping of rock, and knelt beside his master, winding an arm around his waist.

“Master,” he said, unable to take his eyes from Robin’s leg. It looked strangely twisted. “You should sit.” Robin’s face was as white as vellum. He reached out a hand to Much and gripped his wrist, lips pressed tightly together as he half fell into a sitting position. Then, to Much’s astonishment, a strained grin flashed over his face.

“That’ll teach me, eh?”

Much looked up at the bank Robin had jumped from. It fell almost sheer for ten feet before it reached the ground. “I doubt it, somehow,” he muttered, and Robin laughed; a short, breathy laugh, very unlike his usual one.

“You’ve been my manservant for, what? A couple of hours? You’re already acting the part.” He leaned back into Much’s arm. Much pulled him closer and arranged his limbs so that he was sitting next to Robin. His own heart was beating against his ribcage just at this proximity, at Robin’s head’s heaviness on his shoulder.

He slammed the door on those thoughts, and tried to even out his voice when he said, “I should go for help.” He had to find some inner reserves of firmness to strengthen his words. Usually Robin was the firm one. He tightened his grip around his master’s body. He could feel Robin’s breath, fluttering in and out of him.

“How-” Robin broke off, bowing his head. His dark hair hung in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath and began again. “How did I let this happen?”

“Let this happen? Master, this was an accident!”

“No.” There was a thread of steel in Robin’s voice that Much had never heard before. “I did this to myself.”

“You simply fell wrong, that’s all-”

“Much,” he said, lifting his head as another of those fierce, forced grins flashed across his face, “Where are you going to go for help?”

The question rotated uselessly for a moment in Much’s head before he remembered himself enough to think about it. In his mind’s eye, all the paths from this point unscrolled before him, leading to all the possibilities. “I could run back to Locksley, get Thornton. Or I could go to Riversley. Or Knighton.” He looked back at Robin. But Robin was looking down at his leg again. His hands hovered either side of it, as if he were afraid to touch it. “Master?”

“Knighton’s closest. The Sheriff has men.” Robin’s hands were shaking. “Oh, Much – what if – what if they have to-”

“No.” The sound of Much’s voice, loud amongst the birdsong and quiet rustlings of the forest, startled them both. He let go of Robin’s waist and caught his hands in both of his. Robin looked up at him. There was something pleading in the set of his eyebrows, his mouth. “Don’t think about that. Don’t you dare.” Much set his own jaw. “Do you think you can hold onto me?”

“What?” Even the pain hadn’t dulled the acerbic edge Robin put into his own bafflement. “What are you talking about?”

“If you can put your arms around my neck,” Much said, his eyes going from Robin’s to the trees (shadows growing longer and darker as afternoon wore into evening) to the bank and back again as the path to Knighton unfurled itself in front of him, even stone and incline, “and bear a little bit more pain, I can carry you.”

“What, all the way to Knighton?”

“Yes.” If he said it decisively enough, it might just turn out to be true.

Robin looked down at his leg, then at his hands in Much’s. Then up, at Much’s face. Much tried to hold Robin’s gaze. Then, so quietly it might have been only the wind in the treetops, Robin said, “Very well.” He wound his fingers through Much’s. “Very well.”

Much couldn’t look away. Inside, his mind was preternaturally still. His face was only inches from Robin’s. He could feel Robin’s breath on his lips. “Do you trust me?” The words left his mouth without thought. Robin’s fingers tightened on his.

“Yes, Much. I trust you.”

His mind was empty. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Robin’s – and felt things inside him collapsing, aflame. The sudden warmth and pressure of Robin’s mouth, the faintest hesitation and then response, lips moving against his own, the flicker of hot tongue against his teeth – and then he broke away. He was assaulted by cold air and his own hammering heart, and by Robin’s eyes.

“Master?”

“Let’s go, Much.”

Much looked away. He leaned back and drew a breath, the thought of the miles ahead suddenly returning to him with all the gentleness of a mace to the head – but before he could turn away, he felt Robin squeeze his hand.


	19. What Freedom Feels Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of the season two finale. Marian is dead. Carter is dead. Will and Djaq remained behind in the Holy Land. This is the last fic I wrote for this fandom.

So this is what freedom feels like.

On the pitching, rolling deck of the ship that will bear them home, under a sun that still burns and glances off the water in bright arrows to blind their aching eyes (they’re all sick of sight anyway), Much clings to the rail and breathes in deep gulps of the freshening sea air with his eyes closed, wondering when he’s going to stop feeling as if the world has ended.

Freedom, as Robin would have it, feels like a tremendous lightness. It begins at the very core of him and stretches out to his fingertips, his toes, the top of his head. It’s as though if he lets go the rail, he’ll float up into the heavens and never come down. Where did this come from? The cutting off of burdens? The upheaval of shame? The lost weight of the tears shed in Nettlestone and in the desert?

He doesn’t know where Robin is. This is a little alarming. It flip-flops in his belly like nausea, because this must be the first time in forever that he hasn’t known. Normally, it comes like a kind of clairvoyance, easily: he can sense Robin’s presence in the world like a stone on a stretched sheet. Perhaps that’s what makes him feel so light now – the weight of knowledge is gone.

The weight of Robin. Once his burden to bear. Now – no more.

That thought brings back the constriction in his throat, the need for air. No matter how deep he breathes these days, he can’t quite get enough.

Freedom – at what cost? A feeling like an arrow to his chest, all the time; this curious lightness of body (even when he stumbles and falls he can barely feel a thing); this gaping hole – not in him, but in the rest of the world. The places where Djaq and Will used to be, where Carter used to be, Marian. Not to mention the spaces between those left behind. Somebody dissolved the glue that binds them – now they move as if in different worlds. And the gap where, in all the space between himself and Robin, there used to be something solid, tangible. Much always imagined the space thick with whatever it was between them, a stew of love and need and hurt. That was gone, too. Replaced by empty air.

Freedom, Much has learned, feels like his heart breaking.


End file.
